


These Emerald Nights

by pippa21336



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Be nice to me, Blood Drinking, Kissing, LITERALLY, M/M, Mystrade is hinted at... Just hinted., Past Sherlock/Jim, Seb's just a wittle tiger, This is my first thing on here, Vampires, Violence but I wouldn't call it graphic, Were-Creatures, Werecats, Werewolves, a little bit of swearing, reference to sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippa21336/pseuds/pippa21336
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock is a vampire and has some past... Issues with one James Moriarty. I wish I could say hilarity ensues...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The dull thumping of a heart…

Blood.

 

The only desire Sherlock held at that very moment in time. So famished was he, that his keen ears could pick out the pulse of each individual person in the street below him, under the hum of the traffic, and his equally as acute sense of smell could catch their scents through the putrid city fumes.

Leaning over on his hands and knees, he peered down into the dank alleyway he had the misfortune to be hunting from that night. The smell that rose from the dark was stomach churning and stuck in the back of his throat. Nevertheless, his muscles were taut, his eyes eager and fangs bared, his entire being ready to pounce.

 

“Ah, ah, ah.”

A soft but assertive hand brushed through Sherlock’s inky curls, pulling him away from the edge. The vampire snarled harshly and John chuckled.

“Not yet, sweet pea,” He murmured, crouching next to his sanguineous partner and holding him back by the fabric of his collar. Sherlock was much too strong for his lycanthropic counter-part, faster too; able to move and manipulate him in whichever way he pleased in well under two seconds. Now, however, wasn’t the time for that.

“ _When_ then?” The detective snarled, glaring up at him, “You can’t promise me fresh blood and then-”

 

“Stop,” John shushed him shortly, cutting him off completely. He pressed a soft finger against Sherlock’s lips and pointed down into the dark passage with his free hand. A drunk man stumbled through the gloom and fell against the building they were stood on, cursing and grumbling under his breath. From what the detective could see, his prey that night was an office worker of some kind mid-thirties, not married or in any kind of notable relationship. Definitely not someone who would be missed terribly if he went missing...

 

The deep, scarlet rings that usually rimmed just the edge of Sherlock’s pupils blew wide with hunger, engulfing most of his brilliant blue irises.

 

“No,” John snapped sharply, tugging at Sherlock’s collar again. He knew that look. “You take what you need, and _nothing_ more. Do _not_ kill him, _understand_?”

His friend glared at him, snarling at him and baring his, now much more noticeable, fangs. “Fine,” He growled after a moment, sneering at him, “Can I _please_ just eat?”

John let go of his shirt a little bit and looked over the edge again. The drunk man was nearly into the bright lights of main road, they’d have to move swiftly.

“Be quick, and don’t let anybody see you,” He whispered, pressing a quick kiss to Sherlock’s cheek before letting him go completely.

 

With a satisfied grin, the detective sprang to the ground, making nothing more than a dull thump as he hit the pavement. His prey stumbled again on the uneven ground and swore, dropping the beer bottle that had been in his hand and waiting for it to smash. But it didn’t.

“I think you dropped this,” Sherlock murmured. The man jumped, startled by the presence of the dark stranger, but surprisingly comfortable. Sherlock gave off an extremely comforting, enigmatic… But that was just Sherlock. He was always like that.

 

The drunk turned and with shaky breath and equally as clumsy fingers, reached out, wrapping his hand around the glass. Sherlock tugged sharply, holding an arm around his prey’s waist to keep him upright as he sniffed at his neck. The smell of alcohol that reeled off of his skin was dizzying to the vampire, so strong that it burnt in the back of his throat, but under that was that sweet, slightly metallic smell that he craved. Blood. Fresh, warm blood, pumping through the man’s veins.

 

“Don’t you smell nice,” He murmured, a dark smile lighting his features as he ghosted his nose up his catch’s neck. What he was doing could easily be misconceived as flirting, and their closeness as intimacy, rather than what it really was. A predatory dance.

“Sherlock,” John called, dangling his feet over the edge of the roof impatiently, “We don’t have time for you to play with your food.”

The drunk’s eyes, which he hadn’t realized were closed, snapped open and he tried to stumble backwards.

“Food?” He repeated, “Jesus, what the fu-” Sherlock caught him by the hand and pressed a seductive finger to his lips.

“Oh, hush _darling_ ,” He murmured.

“Look mate,” The drunk slurred, trying to pull away, “I ain’t looking for no bu- Uh…”

 

His knees buckled under him and his eyes opened wide as searing pain and blissful pleasure burned like acid through his veins. Sherlock bit down hard, fangs piercing the skin with little to no resistance, through his flesh and puncturing the Carotid artery. His tongue lapped hungrily at the oozing wound, trying to ignore the unpleasant, bitter bite that alcohol added. His prey’s eyes flickered closed and his head lolled to one side as he moaned with pleasure, giggling quietly. Sherlock would have been flattered if it had actually meant anything. This man would be so wasted from the high; he wouldn’t remember a thing in the morning.

 

“Sherlock,” John called, swinging his legs over the rooftop’s edge, “time to stop now.”

Sherlock pulled away for a moment, only to snarl and hiss up at his friend before returning to his meal. He was still resentful of John making him wait, forcing his to watch all the pretty girls and well-dressed go past earlier that evening with their young skin and sober blood. Why was he always stuck with the junkies and the drunks?

“Sherlock,” John repeated, this time in a warning tone, “I’m not asking nicely anymore. _Let. Him. Go._ ”

The detective took no notice of him and continued feeding, digging his teeth even deeper to draw out more blood.

 

There was a sharp thump, followed by a low, fierce growl. The sound reverberated around the cramped space and Sherlock dropped the man in his arms, turning on his heel and allowing a low hiss to escape his teeth. John snarled and bent low to the ground, canine teeth bared and the fair hairs that covered his body standing on end. Sherlock had to stop himself biting his bloody lip. God he looked gorgeous like this, sharp blue eyes staring right at him, back hunched so his front paws could rest on the ground, ears flat against his head and claws digging into the ground, crazing the concrete paving slabs.

 

“John…” Sherlock said quietly, reaching a hand out tentatively. John growled and his nostrils flared angrily as he took a step back.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock murmured, taking a half-step forward, then another and then another, until he was only a few centimetres away from burying his fingers in John’s warm fur, “I shouldn’t have don’t that, I know… Come on, come here gorgeous…”

John scowled at him for a moment, breathing heavy and deliberate, before his expression softened and he leaned forward, letting his head nuzzle gently into Sherlock’s hand. He whined and his tail wagged happily, making Sherlock chuckle. He looked almost… Placid like this.

“Come on you,” He smiled, pressing a kiss to John’s fur, “Let’s get home.”

 

The doctor glanced over at the man on the floor, who was still bleeding.

“Oh shit…” Sherlock muttered, crouching down next to the drunk and propping him up against the wall. His tongue traced gently across his wound, saliva bonding and healing the skin, and he groaned quietly. Sherlock pulled back and fixed his shirt, closing his fingers around the beer bottle.

“Someone will find him in the morning,” Sherlock said, burying his hand in the fur at John’s shoulder again, “Let’s go home.”

 

* * *

 

“Your brother texted me.”

 

Sherlock glanced up at John for a moment then continued to press slow, open-mouthed kisses up the length of his spine.

“Mmm,” He hummed when John remained silent.

“He said he want to see you,” The doctor continued, shrugging.

Sherlock pulled back, shifting him onto his bare lap, wrapping his legs around his waist, and began kissing across one of his broad shoulders.

“Delete it,” He murmured, making his way up John’s neck. The werewolf gasped, tensing for a moment when Sherlock began to trace him tongue around his pulse point appreciatively before letting out a low, blissful hiss.

 

“I did,” He murmured, trying to regain his composure.

Sherlock nuzzled the little spot behind his ear gently. “So, what’s there to worry about?” He asked, sucking his earlobe gently.

John bit his lip. “I don’t know… He just said ‘I’m not impressed you need to be more careful…’”

Sherlock frowned for a moment- ‘what the hell is he talking about? I’m always careful…’ –before reaching up to press kisses along John’s jaw, nipping at the skin carefully.

“Ignore him,” He said after a while, “He’s never impressed with me. It’s probably nothing.”

“Yeah… Nothing,” John echoed, willing himself to believe it.


	2. Chapter 2

When John awoke the next morning, still revelling in blissful post-orgasmic haze, it was to a, surprisingly, empty bed. Sunlight streamed through the blinds and a warm breeze filtered through an open window. The rush of air tickled at John’s toes, but he still felt distinctly cold under the empty duvet.

“Sherlock?” He called; his voice still heavy and slurred with sleep as he tried to lift his head. When there was no reply, he groaned and let his head hit the pillow again, rolling over to wrench himself out of the bed, silently cursing whatever it was that had woke him up.

He slipped on his soft, green dressing gown, fluffy and warm and comforting, a complete opposite to Sherlock’s thin, blue silk robe which had been discarded at the end of the bed in a heap the night before, and shuffled on slipper-clad feet into the kitchen.  
The detective, who usually enjoyed long morning-after lie-ins, was still nowhere to be seen.  
John’s first reaction was to panic, bottom lip firmly held between his teeth, and glance around the room, almost in hysterics, until he remembered Sherlock had fed the night before.  
The vampire was dangerous when he was hungry; thoughtless and erratic, likely to kill on a whim, rather than think about what he was doing; hence why he needed John to keep him in check.

Raising a, somewhat confused, eyebrow, John set the kettle to boil and looked around for his phone. The display, which was much too bright for so early in the day, showed he had two new messages.

Lestrade texted me, there’s been a body found. I didn’t want to wake you. –SH  
Love you. –SH

John trailed his thumb fondly down the cool plastic of the screen, beaming. God, Sherlock could be an insufferable git sometimes, but he was his insufferable git.

There was a cough from behind him and John turned, startled to see Mycroft stood in the doorway of the flat. He blushed, fully aware of the fact he was half-naked, and also fully aware of the fact that he had slept with the brother of the man in front of him the previous night.  
Knowing Mycroft, he probably was as well.

“Oh, um, Mycroft,” The doctor stammered, blushing scarlet and lowering his phone, tucking it away in his pocket, “I’m afraid you’ve missed Sherlock. He’s just gone to Bart’s, I’m sure he’ll be back in a tick though, if-” Mycroft cut him off with a raise of his hand.  
“I’m fully aware of my brother’s location, Dr Watson,” He said, lips turned down in a rather disinterested – no, disappointed – frown, “It’s not him I need to talk to.”  
John raised an eyebrow. “You… You need to talk to me then?” He took a breath, “Alright then. Do you want to come and sit down? I just put the kettle on if you want some tea.”  
Mycroft shook his head. “No thank you, I don’t plan to stay long.”

He made his way across the room, lifting Sherlock violin gently from his chair and placing it on the floor. John sat opposite him and waited for him to tell him what he wanted because, if John had leaned one thing since he had met the man, he knew Mycroft Holmes only ever made house-called when he wanted something. You didn’t need to be his brother to work that much out.

After a long silence, drawn out possibly because the subject matter was somewhat delicate, but more likely for effect, Mycroft finally spoke.  
“Samuel Davies.”  
“Don’t know him.”  
The elder Holmes brother gave him a distinctly unimpressed look, before lifting an official-looking folder he had held in his hand – how had John not noticed that? – and passing it to him.  
“Perhaps this may jog your memory,” He suggested, with a wry smile.

John raised his eyebrow again, reaching out to take the file and opening it.  
Inside, there were what looked like medical notes, (a post-mortem most likely), police documents and – John gasped – a photo. A photo of a man he recognized.

Mycroft smirked slightly, straightening up in his chair.  
“Samuel Davies, thirty-two, known simply as Sam to his friends,” He said casually, reeling the information off at ease, “Worked as an accountant to a large London company, international computer sales, if I’m not mistaken. No criminal record to speak of,” He paused and looked down at the floor, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on top. “He was founded dead at six o’clock this morning in an alley off of Edgware Road, a mere…” He looked at his watch, “Five to ten minute walk from your flat. Two puncture wounds to the neck, as well as slit wrists. He died of blood loss.”

John put the folder down on his knees with shaky hands.  
“Mycroft, whatever you’re implying-”  
Mycroft chuckled. “You think I blame my brother for this?” He asked, an irritating smirk curling at his lips, “Of course not. I trust you enough not to let him do anything too… Stupid,” He said the word as though it was an understatement, “No, I believe someone else was involved.”  
“Another vampire?” John asked, looking shocked.  
Mycroft nodded. “I know, it’s shocking, but there are more of our kind than my brother and I,” He said in a rather patronising tone.

“I know,” John scowled, sounding offended, “I just… This is Sherlock’s territory. Mine as well. We would know if another…” He trailed off. Would they? Really? In theory, yes, of course they would. If they came along the intruder’s scent, but in London, with so many other people and so many other smells, a single person’s scent could disappear in a day, maybe less, and they hardly did daily patrols or anything.

Mycroft coughed quietly and John looked back up at him, torn from his worried thoughts for a brief moment.  
“Listen, John,” He tone was soft and calm, the kind you’d use to consol a worried mother, the kind John had used to consol worried mothers, “As much as I regret to admit it, the British Government cannot possibly keep files on every single vampire, werewolf and goodness knows what else, that makes its way into London. The mere existence of such files would compromise out security and secrecy more than anything.” He sighed and leaned forward in his chair again, “I need you to find out who this person is. I simply cannot have a rogue vampire roaming about and killing whoever he pleases. You’ll need to talk to Sherlock.”

John furrowed his brow. “Why can’t you talk to Sherlock?” He demanded, “As much as you seem to think differently, I’m his boyfriend, not his babysi-” Mycroft raised a knowing eyebrow and nodded, “Oh, of course,” He rolled his eyes, “Sibling rivalry, sure, sure.”  
Mycroft smiled a tight smile, the tips of his fangs pressing gently into his bottom lip in a way that usually drove John crazy when Sherlock did it. On his brother however, it just seemed… Dangerous.  
“I’m glad you understand,” Mycroft said rising from his seat and taking the file from John’s hands, replacing Sherlock’s violin where it had set before, “My brother seems to… Listen to you, for some reason.”  
“I wonder why that might be…” John mumbled under his breath, rising as well to show Mycroft the door.

Before they reached the bottom step, he stopped.  
“Your text,” He said, looking confused, “The one you sent last night. You said you were ‘disappointed’ with Sherlock.”  
Mycroft turned and nodded, humming with little interest.  
“So… You suspected him?” John continued, looking back at Mycroft with a raised eyebrow.  
“Of course,” The elder Holmes brother said with a small, tight smile, “It seemed, at the time, to be the only, logical explanation, so I simply assumed,” He shrugged, “Every rose has it’s thorns.”  
John nodded. He knew, probably better than anyone else, about Sherlock and thorns. He’d been pricked and bled by almost each and every one.

“I’ll be in touch,” Mycroft said, opening the front door and stepping out into the street without another word.

The pocket of John’s dressing gown buzzed, and he pulled out his phone. Its screen glowed dully with the words ‘One new message from ‘Sherlock x’’. He opened it with a small sigh.

St Bart’s morgue, five minutes. –SH

The tea would obviously have to wait.

* * *

“Freak, there’s a stray for you.”

Sally Donovan’s voice grated at the back of Sherlock’s mind, distracting him enough that, firstly, his teeth set on edge and he let out a low hiss between his lips, but secondly and most importantly, he didn’t realize to whom she was referring to until John’s hand had slipped into his and his lips were near his ear.  
“He’s the one,” He whispered, voice shakily unnerved, “From last night. Mycroft thinks-” He stopped himself quickly when Sherlock began to glare at him, “It… It must have been another vampire. It just must have.”

Sherlock let his lips curl into a fond smile. John was such a… Dog sometimes. Thoughtlessly loyal, and strong, and protective, opting to throw himself in the face of danger well before suspecting Sherlock of doing anything remotely wrong, simply because he wouldn’t let him. He kept him safe and in check, stopped him from doing anything stupid.  
“Of course,” The detective replied in his ‘John, I love you, but must you be so obvious all of the time?’ voice, “It was hardly me now, was it?”  
John shook his head. “Of course not,” He said, sounding appalled. Sherlock’s ego practically glowed at this, until the doctor added, “Well, I mean, I don’t think so…”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, about to question what the hell he thought he was talking about, when Lestrade cleared his throat on the other side of the examination table.  
“Yes, what?” Sherlock snapped, glancing up at the detective inspector.  
“Have you got anything yet?” Lestrade asked, folding his arms and preparing himself for the inevitable rush of information that the detective would produce. Sherlock did not disappoint.

“The cuts, Swiss army knife blade, stainless steel, two, maybe two-and-a-half inches,” He reeled off the words as though they were scripted, walking around the harsh metal slab with a swish and a flourish of his long Belstaff coat, “Made to force him to bleed out faster. Why? Perhaps because of this,” He pointed to the marks at his neck, “Someone re-opened the wounds I sealed off.”  
It took a moment for this to sink in for Lestrade. “Wait, you sealed off…” He began, but Sherlock had already started reeling off his deductions again.

“If they had been feeding from him, which would have been very unwise seeing as I’ve already marked my territory sufficiently, they would have made new wounds, not reopened the old ones. We’re not complete savages,” He paused for a half-breath, “So, what can we tell from this? The vampire, obviously a male-”  
“Obviously?” Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow.  
“Obviously,” Sherlock replied with a nod, “He’s clearly trying to frame me. Why? I’ve no idea, but it’s clear from the evidence. He slit the man’s wrists, killing him almost instantly, and left him to bleed out. He then proceeded to reopen to the puncture wounds by…”

He stopped dead and let out a small gasp, looking up and meeting John’s gaze.  
“He’s… He’s a werewolf?” John breathed, taken completely aback.  
“Of course…” Sherlock nodded, “But then why-” He stopped himself again, bashing a gloved palm against his forehead, “Stupid, stupid! It’s so simple!”  
“It is?” Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow, “Because I’m completely lost…”  
“The killer,” John explained, “He’s not a vampire, he’s a werewolf. We’re sort of… the Yin to vampire’s Yang. They’re able to close wounds with their saliva, and we’re able to open them. It used to be used to try and suck infected blood back out of a victim to stop them changing, but we don’t really do that anymore…” He trailed off and his eyes opened wide with realization.

“But the cuts…” He said quietly then looked at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow, “So… There was a vampire?”  
The corner of Sherlock’s lips lifted slightly and he let pride bubble up in his chest. God, he loved when John made deductions.  
The doctor shook his head. “So, let me get this straight, alright? There was a werewolf, like me, who opened the would on this bloke’s neck, and also slit his wrists,” Sherlock nodded and he continued, “And there was also… A vampire, who was meant to close the cuts on his wrist again, but…”  
“He never showed up,” Lestrade finished, seeming to finally understand what the other two were getting at.

Sherlock nodded again, smiling at the body before him. Oh, this case was going to be brilliant!  
“Come along then, John,” He declared suddenly, taking his friend’s hand again and pulling him towards the door, “There’s someone we need to talk to.”  
“Wait, Sherlock, I-” Lestrade’s objections were quickly silenced as the door fell back into place behind them.

As soon as they were out of both sight and earshot of anyone under the florescent bulbs of the bleached-white Saint Bart’s corridor, Sherlock stopped abruptly, causing John to bump into him.  
“You alright mate?” He asked, squeezing his boyfriend’s hand gently, “Do you need somethi-”  
He was cut off when his back hit the hard concrete of the interior wall. It wasn’t unpleasant - but then, being pinned against the wall by Sherlock never was - but it was definitely unexpected.

“You thought it was me, didn’t you?” Sherlock demanded, and then his tone softened, almost to disbelief, “I… I can’t believe you’d even thought it a possibility. I was with you last night. We slept together.”  
John nodded. “Yeah, but, how do I know what you were doing when I was actually sleeping? For all I know, you could have gone back and…” He trailed off when Sherlock snarled.  
“I stayed with you,” The detective hissed, “You know I did. I always do. Why would I even consider leaving you for a moment to-”

He was cut off in turn by his own back hitting cold concrete, and then the feeling of John’s lips, hot and harsh against his own, and John’s tongue, eager and adventurous as always, exploring his mouth. The doctor’s hands reached up and wrapped around Sherlock’s neck, fingers digging into the thick, inky curls at the nape of his neck, and the detective’s slipped down around John’s waist, fingers tucking shamelessly beneath the fabric of his trousers, pulling the shorter man up to meet him.

It was John who finally pulled them apart, moving away so he could look up at Sherlock, who was completely stunned for the time being, with a serious expression.  
“I know you didn’t do it,” He said simply, “I trust you, alright. I just assumed, at first, because you’re one of the two vampires I know. Anyway Mycroft did the same two, so don’t even think of calling me atupid.”  
Sherlock nodded, feeling rather small, despite the face he had a good few inches on John. “Of course. I’m… I’m sorry,” He replied quietly, “Thank you for trusting me… It’s important that you do.”

John nodded curtly, and Sherlock pressed a kiss to his forehead, murmuring, “I love you,” before threading their fingers back together and pulling him towards the door.  
“Come on,” He said, giving John’s hand a squeeze, “There’s an old favour I need to call in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this was alright. This whole thing is un-Beta'd so please don't hate me if there's stuff wrong with it. This chapter was just meant to be a little bit of a linking chapter, so I'm sorry it's not the most interesting thing ever.


	3. Chapter 3

John wrapped his coat around himself and rubbed his gloved hands together. It didn't help, he was already soaked through, but the thought was there.  
"Remind me why that fuck we're standing out in the rain again," He growled through chattering teeth, turning to Sherlock and scowling.  
"Miller," Sherlock said simply, stretching out a hand. It took a moment for John to realized the detective wasn't addressing him, but instead a man who had appeared behind him. From the look of him, not to mention the smell, he was a vampire and, like Sherlock, also favoured the 'long coats and mysterious darkness' approach that really belonged in the nineteenth century. Either way, his mere presence made the hairs on the back of John's neck stand on end, and sent a chill down his spine. He regarded him with wary eyes.  
"Holmes," His accent was thick and American, just on the wrong side of nasal, "Good to see ya." He shook Sherlock's hand briefly, before reaching up to pull the collar of his shirt down. The detective did the same with his own shirt, and they both nodded when they saw the other's bite; jagged, red scars on their otherwise pallid skin, slightly black around the edges from where the toxins had stained the flesh some decades ago.

"Who's your friend?" Miller asked, looking John up and down as he ran a hand through his perfectly tousled, copper hair. He looked about twenty but, like Sherlock, John knew he was much older, a hundred years at least. Standing next to the two other men, John couldn't help but feel self-conscious.  
"Colleague," John replied automatically, even though the question wasn't directed at him, "John Watson."  
Sherlock of course, being the brilliant git that he was, had to correct him. "Boyfriend," He cut in coolly, and Miller raised an eyebrow.  
"Got yourself another werewolf toyboy then?" He asked, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cigarette. He lit it up. "Just like J-"  
A low growl ripped through Sherlock's throat, so vicious it took even John by surprise.  
"John is nothing like /him,/" He snarled, practically spitting the word, "And, I didn't ask you hear to talk about my love-life."

Miller took a long drag of his cigarette, before parting his lips slightly, almost seductively, and blowing a soft, white wisp of smoke into the air. John could feel Sherlock's impatience rising, as well as his own dislike towards the man. He was just creepy, and he was upsetting Sherlock. He reached out and gave his boyfriend's hand a subtle squeeze.  
"What can I do ya for then?" he asked eventually, leaning against the, rather grimy, brick wall on his right and tapping the ash from his cigarette.  
"A vampire," Sherlock said simply, "Have you seen one?" Miller laughed.  
"I'm looking right at one," He grinned, "Toyboy 'n' all"  
"Not /me/ you twat," Sherlock snapped sharply, "Someone else. Has there been anyone else in London, specifically around this area, in the past few days."  
Miller pondered this for a moment, taking another long drag of his cigarette, before shaking his head.  
"Not that I can rightly say," He said with a shrug, "Sorry fellas."

"Fuck," Sherlock, who rarely let anything get to him - at least not in public - cursed, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, "Alright. Fine. Thank you anyway, Jensen."  
Miller smiled, before glancing towards a different alleyway a few meters away from them. "No problem. Now, if you don't mind, I'll be on my way. I think dinner had just arrived." His eyes were already blown wide with hunger and John was suddenly /very/ aware that he had the only still-beating heart between the three of them.  
"Yes, fine, go," Sherlock said, squeezing the bridge of his nose and sighing, irritably.  
Miller nodded curtly - John was sure if he had worn a cowboy had, he would have tipped it to both of them - first to the detective, then to the doctor, before making his way towards the side-alley. He stopped before he reached it.

"If you ever feel like boltin' Johnny-boy," He called with a smirk, "I'm always up for some fun. Rather partial to the young'ns."  
With a laugh and a swish of his coat, he disappeared into the gloom.

John looked up at Sherlock, confused with a raised eyebrow.  
"What did he mean by-"  
"Just ignore Miller," Sherlock replied, still scowling in the direction, "He's a creep and a wanker."  
John chuckled. Sherlock barely ever swore, it was rather funny when he did. "Yeah, I worked that much out for myself," He said, and Sherlock smiled, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to his partner's lips.  
"Come on," He murmured, taking the doctors hand and squeezing it gently, "Let's get you home."

Sex that night was soft and slow. Sherlock lay him out on the the bed and sat above his hips, trailing his hands all across his back - 'spinal chord, vertebrae C1 to 8, Th1 through to 12, L1 to 5, the Os sacrum, the coccyx...' - and then his front - 'twenty-four ribs, three have been broke (two on the left, one on the right, probably from rugby) the sternum, costal cartilages and twelve thoracic vertebrae, already examined on the back. All in all, slightly damaged, but still perfect' - nipping and kissing and licking every inch of bare skin presented to him. He tested different pressure, finding out which areas were sensitive to what.  
For his tongue it was the shell of his ear and his feet, for lips; the inside of his thighs, his jaw and his wrists, and for his teeth, his bottom lip and-

"Stop."  
Sherlock pulled away before he had the chance to nip at the soft skin of his neck.  
"What's the matter?" He murmured, kissing up John's jaw and making John's eyelids flutter. He never usually complained when he bit his neck, in fact, he enjoyed it more than most of the things they did.  
"Nothing..." John replied, sounding unsure, "I just... Have work in the morning," he ran a hand through Sherlock's messy, inky curls, twisting the soft hairs around his fingers, "I'm sure none of my patients would like it if I showed up with love bites all over my neck tomorrow."  
Sherlock chuckled and moved to nuzzled his hand - 'carpals, metacarpals, proximal phalanges, intermediate phalanges, distal phalanges...' - kiss his palm gently.  
"I'd probably have Sarah on my case for months," He smiled slyly, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lover's lips. John hummed softly in agreement.

Soon, the doctor's usually fair skin was more bites and scratches and goose bumps than it had ever been before, and by the time they were done, both were content, oozing with love for one another, and thoroughly well-fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, sorry this took so long to get up. I've been busy :\


	4. Chapter 4

‘No, no! Where is he?’  
John grasped desperately at the bed sheets, but they were empty. Hopelessly empty. No matter how much he tossed and turned, he was gone.  
‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!’  
He let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a moment and trying to straighten out his head. Sherlock was gone. Where was he? When was the last time he had eaten? Where would he go on his own?  
‘Oh god, what if he kills someone?’

 

The thought had him sat bolt upright in a second, and was about to throw his legs over the side of the bed to get up and go look for him when there was a quiet scuffling in the shadows at the corner of the room. He peered through the darkness, cursing himself for not having Sherlock’s keen eyesight, when the figure moved out into the pale moon light streaming through the window.

 

“Sherlock?” John breathed, and then in relief, drawing a hand across his eyes, “Jesus Christ, you fucking terrified me…”  
He glanced up when Sherlock didn’t move.  
“Come on, you daft twit,” he said, reaching out a hand, “I need a bloody hug or something now.”  
A smile flickered across the vampire’s dark features and he sauntered forwards, crawling onto the bed slowly, prowling like a tiger. When he reached his legs, he pushed them apart and let his hand trace up the inside of John’s thigh. The doctor dropped his head back against the pillows and his eyes flickered closed.  
“That’s nice…” he murmured, lifting his hips gently towards the soft hands, opening his eyes to smile up at the figure above him.

 

The eyes that greeted him were red and ravenous, and the face definitely not Sherlock’s.

 

John gasped and tried to pull back, but the strong, suddenly harsh, hands kept him in place. One of them crept up his body, fore and middle fingers walking up his, then his chest, and covered his mouth.  
“Don’t scream,” the stranger murmured, his voice smooth and sweet, the way Sherlock’s went when he had a hold of his prey, “Or I’ll just have to kill you…”  
John let out a muffled whimper and his whole body tensed, but try as he might, he couldn’t change, no matter how much he begged his muscles to swell and grow, or his skin to prick with fair, sandy hairs. He was either too paralyzed with fear, or his body had lost the ability to change at all.

 

The vampire obviously figured out what he was trying to do because he smirked and shook his head.  
“Oh, you don’t need to do that sweetie,” he murmured, lips brushing John’s ear, “Look, I can make it nice for you.” He reached his free hand up and cupped John’s crotch, squeezing a massaging him gently through the fabric. The doctor let out a long moan, or at least hiss body did, and he blushed profusely, making the dark-haired man above him chuckle and blow a warm breath across his face.

 

No, this definitely was not Sherlock. His scent was all wrong. There was no way in hell that he was even remotely…  
‘But he does smell quite sweet like Sherlock does,’ the voice at the back of his mind piped up.  
John internally shook his head, gazing at the figure above him with his wicked smile. There was a kind of bitterness where Sherlock had an almost musty, earthy sort of smell. Sherlock smelled warm and inviting, like a cup of tea at the end of a long day, but this man, this man reeked of danger, and not in the way Miller had either. No, this was definitely not Sherlock, or his creepy American friend. This was someone different, someone dangerous.  
‘Someone who would maybe frame Sher-’

 

John’s thoughts were cut off and he groaned again as warm trailed up his neck, connecting each of the sensitive spots on his skin like he was a dot-to-dot puzzle. The hand at his crotch kept moving, rubbing with just the right amount of friction to make John’s hips rise unconsciously into his palm, while the one at his mouth moved to brace his shoulder against the mattress just as teeth - no – fangs, brushed against his pulse point.  
“Hold still…” Came that same soft voice in his ear, as those fangs slowly, teasingly pressed down and-

 

“Sherlock!”

 

John woke with a start. It felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over him, making him gasp and splutter. He sat up, trying to get his breath back.  
“John?” there was a hand on his, cool, pale fingers intertwining with his shorter, more tanned digits, “John I’m here, it’s okay. It was just a dream.”  
Sherlock’s face swam into view and John flinched away.  
“You bit me!”  
“What?” Sherlock looked appalled, “No I didn’t! What are you talking about?”  
  


The doctor’s face faltered as he looked at his friend, taking in the edges and shadows and details of his face. “No… You didn’t,” he agreed with a shaky nod, propping himself up on his elbows, “But… I thought it was you, it looked like you, over there,” he pointed over to the corner of the room, “But it wasn’t. They… They smelled all wrong.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed slightly. “Who did, John? What did they look like?”  
John chewed his bottom lip for a moment. “He was sort of… Tall, not as tall as you, with… Black hair and these eyes,” he shuddered, sitting up straight and squeezing his eyes closed for a moment, “They were so _red_ , Sherlock. I’ve never seen anything like them…”  
  


Sherlock’s eyebrows moved closer together and he leaned towards him. “Do you remember what he smelled like?” he asked, his voice low, conspiratorial almost.  
John thought for a moment, jaw set in concentration as he tried to remember what it was exactly he had smelled, before he finally sighed in defeat.  
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “I can’t remember. I don’t… It was just a dream, I…” he licked his lips and shook his head shortly again, “I don’t remember.”  
Sherlock’s frowned for a moment, before his expression softened and he reached out, wrapping his arms around John’s waist and pulling him onto his lap.  
“It’s okay,” he murmured, running a hand through his fair hair, “It was just a dream, I know. Don’t worry.”

 

They were silent for a long time after that. John held onto his friend as though for dear life, nose buried in the crook of his neck, breathing in his sent and listening to the slow whooshes of the vampire’s breathing before Sherlock whispered finally, “I need to leave.”

 

John lifted his head from its place at his neck and looked up at him, eyes alert and confused.  
“What?” he said, sounding appalled, “No. Why?”  
“It wouldn’t be permanent,” Sherlock said quickly, running a hand through John’s hair again in an attempt to soothe him, “A few days at the most. I need to… See someone, an old acquaintance of mine.”  
“No,” John replied shortly, pulling his hand away, “I won’t let you, not on your own. You’ll hurt someone, or worse, yourself.” He paused for a moment. “When was the last time you ate?”  
Sherlock thought back. “Six days ago,” he said with a shrug, “But I’ll be fine.”  
  


John looked up at him. “No, you won’t, either take me with you, or wait until tonight,” he said sternly and Sherlock shook his head.  
“No, I need to leave now,” he insisted, “I was about to leave when,” he gestured between the two of them.  
“No,” John said again, shortly, “Either wait until tonight or… Or… Drink from me.”

 

It took Sherlock a moment to fully register what he had just said in his mind, to place the words with the image; his fangs in John’s neck, his tongue lapping up the blood that he could already hear pumping through his veins and smell under his skin. He looked as though he was going to be sick.

 

“No,” he breathed, his voice shakier than he would have liked, “No, I couldn’t… I would never do that to you.”  
John quirked an eyebrow, looking confused. “Why not? It’s not like you’d turn me or anything, I’d stop you before you went too-”  
“But you wouldn’t,” Sherlock cut in shortly, “Your body wouldn’t be able to function properly, you would be able to speak or move, you’d be powerless,” he shook his head, “I’m not risking it.”  
John’s brow furrowed. “But, you always say I smell so good,” he pointed out, “That you’d give anything for just a drop of my blood…”  
  


“But not your life,” Sherlock said, grasping him by the shoulders, “That’s not how it works. There are things that are right and things that are wrong, I know that now, I’ve made lists. This,” he gestured between the two of them, “Goes on the good list, touching, holding, kissing, etcetera, but me drinking from you…” He shook his head, “That doesn’t even deserve to go on the not good list. It needs a list of its own, and that list then needs to be burned and the ashes held in a safe and the safe thrown into the bottom of the sea.” He hissed bitterly.

 

They were quiet for a moment and Sherlock’s eyes were squeezed closed, until John reached up and kissed him tenderly on the lips.  
“I love you,” he murmured softly, “And that why I won’t let you go. Just wait until tonight, please?” He looked up at him desperately. “For my sake, and your own, and the poor bugger you’ll probably end up drinking dry if you go.”  
“John, I can’t, I have to-“

 

John snarled.

 

“Sherlock Holmes, you listen to me _right now_ ,” he growled, barking the words like an order, “You will stay here until tonight. You will hunt when I say so, and you will leave when I say so. Is. That. Clear?”  
Sherlock took a shaky breath and nodded, before fierce, angry lips met his, and teeth and tongues collided for a brief moment until John pulled away, curling back up against his chest so suddenly it almost gave the detective whiplash.  
“I don’t want you getting yourself hurt,” John murmured, nuzzling Sherlock’s neck affectionately, “I love you too much to watch that happen.”

 

By the time John let him out to hunt, quiet early by their standards but still not early enough for Sherlock’s liking, the vampire’s eyes were blown red and his fangs were already aching, to the point where John had to hold both of his hands around his waist to stop him picking at them.

 

“Can you try and hold back on the whole… Mysterious darkness and seduction thing?” he murmured softly against his lover’s ear, blowing his warm breath down his neck. He didn’t think he could stand it after his dream the night before. Sherlock shivered and raised an eyebrow.  
“Alright,” he said, sounding confused, “I… Didn’t know I did that.”  
John laughed at this. “I find that hard to believe,” he scoffed and tugged him closer to his chest.  
“I really had no idea,” Sherlock insisted, “What is it that I do?”  
“Nothing like you do with me,” John replied softly, turning him around so he faced him, “Which is good. Just this kind of seductive… Dance thing. You tease them until they’re confused and, well, it doesn’t help that you’re bloody gorgeous.”  
Sherlock grinned and dipped down to kiss him gently on the lips. “Oh, Doctor Watson, you do flatter me.”  
  


John grinned and turned him back around to face the alley he was to be hunting from. “Go and eat, you daft twit,” he said, giving him a sharp pat on the bum. Sherlock chuckled and stepped on the edge of the building. He turned back to John, giving him a cheeky wink before spreading his arms out eagle, and falling back against thin air.

 

Of course, after a ridiculously agile somersault that really belonged on an Olympic gymnastics team, he landed with a soft thump on the ground below.  
It was a girl tonight, about twenty-five, twenty-six, obviously a prostitute - ‘skirt’s short, not just revealing short, two-sizes-too-small short, and fishnet stockings are torn in many places. Jewellery is tacky; cheap plastic beads and bangles, painted to look expensive. She took a line of cocaine before she came here, should have injected really, the redness at her nose is much too obvious’ - not the type of person who would be missed…

Sherlock could practically hear John’s voice in the back of his head. “Don’t. Even. Think about it.”  
  


He wasn’t really; it was just instinct, both for the Sherlock part of him and the vampire part.

He actually felt rather sorry for the girl…

 

“Hey sweetheart,” he called, and she turned, only to lean casually against the wall next to her. Sherlock walked towards her, smiling softly.

“See anythin’ you like, love?” She asked when he stopped in front of her; pulling back her jacket to reveal a low-cut top which highlighted the fact she wasn’t wearing a bra by a ridiculous amount. Sherlock didn’t really notice, but instead picked up on the fact her voice was slightly slurred and her eyes not completely focused.

  
Either way, he glanced down, looking as though he were interested, before meeting her eyes again. He might as well flatter the poor girl.  
“How much?” he asked, resting his hand above her head on the wall. She tensed for a moment, waiting for him to grab her or hit her, and then relaxed when he didn’t.  
“For you?” she said, looking him up and down with a smile, “Sixty for an hour. Sixty-five and I’ll suck you off.”  
Sherlock chuckled and looked away for a moment, licking his bottom. When he looked back, his eyes were completely red.   
“Sorry, darling,” he smirked, “But if anyone’s doing any sucking this evening, it’ll be me.”

 

The girl looked confused for a moment, the drugs delaying her reaction time just enough for Sherlock to tilt her head gently and press his fangs straight down into her neck.  
She gasped, her eyelids fluttering closed, and her knees buckled beneath her. Sherlock grabbed her by the arm, remembering what John had requested and trying not to touch her too much. Nevertheless, he lapped hungrily at her blood, trying to ignore the bitter taste of alcohol and drugs. He hadn’t realized how hungry he actually was.

 

After a minute or so, there was a cough from above him.  
“Sherlock?”  
He turned quickly; just about able to make out John’s figure in front of the backdrop of the full moon shining behind him. The look of his face was one of warning.  
  


Sherlock let go of the girl instantly, not wanting a repeat of last time, or that morning to be honest, and she slid to the floor, giggling softly. The detective frowned as he glanced down at her and, after a moment’s though, reached into his pocket. He pulled out his wallet and curled the girl’s fingers around three twenty-pound notes as he licked the wound closed. She wouldn’t remember him and now she wouldn’t starve. It was a win-win situation.

 

He straightened up, tucking his wallet back into his pocket, and glanced up at the rooftop again. John was nowhere in sight. He was obviously on his way down. The detective sighed, and after another guilty glance at the spot where his lover had been stood, disappeared into the hustle and bustle of the busy London night.

 

***

 

_I’ll be gone two days at most. Text me if you need anything. Love you. –SH_

John turned the note over in his hand as he sat in his chair, feeling… Empty for the first time in a long, long while.  
With a disgruntled sigh, he picked up his phone, typing out:

_I saw you. -JW_

 

It took a few minutes for the reply to come, long enough for him to make himself a cup of tea and find four fingers in a jam jar in the fridge, right next to the milk. He moved them to the bottom shelf.

_What are you talking about? Of course you saw me, you always do. -SH_

John sighed and sat back down again.

_No, I mean, I saw you… Looking at her. Her breasts. -JW_

_Oh_ , came the reply, _-SH_

 

_Yes, oh. Why were you looking at her breasts? -JW_

_Disguise. -SH_

_What? -JW_

_She was a prostitute. I had to pretend to be interested, which I wasn’t. -SH_

 

There was a pause before;  
 _John, I’m gay at most, and even that’s stretching it. I only like you. I’m, I don’t know, Johnsexual perhaps or maybe wolfsexual. -SH_

_Alright then… -JW  
But you were still looking. -JW_

_It was simply to flatter her. I was thinking of you the entire time. -SH_

_Really? -JW_

_Yes! I barely even touched her the entire time because you said not to. -SH_

_Oh. Good boy. -JW  
I assume I’ll see you on Monday then. -JW_

_Hopefully, if all goes well. –SH_

That worried John. What if things didn’t go well?

_Stay safe. -JW_

_I always do love. -SH_

_I know, I just worry. Love you. -JW_

_Love you too. -SH_

 

John set his phone down and sipped his tea pensively.  
After a moment or two his feet began tapping irritably and he walked over to the window. He pulled back the curtain and gazed down at the street below. He finally understood what Sherlock meant when he said it was all so boring. The same street, same cars, same people, same grey sky…  
He sighed and let the fabric fall back into place.

 

The next day was as excruciatingly boring as the one before. He picked up his phone and put it back down a half dozen times, either checking for texts to trying to think of something to say.

_I miss you. -JW_

He decided on this at just past midday.  
The reply came a few seconds later.

_I miss you too. This is terribly boring, he’s late. -SH_

_Just be patient sweetie. -JW_

He could practically feel Sherlock rolling his eyes, wherever he was.

  
He chewed his bottom lip for a while, before typing out;

_Why did you sleep with me on Thursday? -JW_

There was a moment’s pause before Sherlock replied.

_You’re my boyfriend, not to mention brilliantly handsome and sexy. Why wouldn’t I sleep with you? -SH_

_We’re in the middle of a case. It’s your number one rule. -JW_

There was a longer pause this time.

_Miller was pissing me off. I wanted to make sure you were still mine. -SH_

_Of course I’m still yours! You don’t even have to worry about that. -JW_

_Good. And you’ll stay that way, no matter what? -SH_

_Of course. -JW_

 

There was no reply to this and John sighed setting his phone down again. Something seemed… Off about Sherlock’s response, like there was something he wasn’t telling him.

He sighed. There was a hell of a lot Sherlock didn’t tell him, there was no need to worry. Instead, he pushed the thought to the back of his mind and glanced at the clock. It was only just gone half seven, but he grabbed his coat anyway and headed down to the local pub.

 

A drink or two might loosen him up a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, hahaha. What is a update timetable?


	5. Chapter 5

By the time John got back to Baker Street, it was well past midnight and he was feeling pleasantly warm. The alcohol burned at the back of his throat and his stomach was in a cosy glow.

 

He staggered up the stairs, not completely drunk, but still not quite in his right mind, and opened the door to their flat. There was a small whimper and paused for a moment, before switching the lights on. There was someone knelt on the floor, his whole body shaking. It took the doctor a moment to realize who it was.

“Oh Jesus…” he breathed, stumbling forwards and dropping to his knees next to the figure, “Sherlock…”

 

The vampire looked up, his featured abnormally stark and sharp under his pale skin, his eyes glassy and his lips quivering. He clutched his arm tightly and blood seeped into his ripped shirt. His whole body quivered as a sob shook through his chest and John pulled him into his lap.

“What did you do, Sherlock?” he asked, kissing the top of his head desperately, “How do I… How do I fix it?”

“The kitchen,” the detective’s voice was raspy and breathless, his breathing laboured, “There’s a container…” He winced in pain, whimpering softly as pain shot through his body again, white hot and burning.

“In the fridge,” he gasped, doubling over in agony, “Quickly!”

 

John shifted the vampire from his lap and hurried into the kitchen, yanking open the fridge door. He stared blankly at the contents for a moment, trying to decode the labels and symbols on the tens of containers in the fridge, trying to figure out which he wanted. He began to panic, of course he didn’t need frozen eyeballs or pig’s stomach acid, but there was nothing else that he could see that would-

 

‘Saliva.’

 

He spotted the label at the back, right in the corner, labelled clearly in Sherlock swirly elegant handwriting. He reached back for it and pulled it out, studying the contents for a moment. Yep, that looked like vampire spit. Stopping only to get the first aid kit from under the sink, he was back at Sherlock’s side in a flash.

“Is this it?” he asked, and the vampire nodded weakly.  John let out a shaky breath of relief, before beginning to peel away Sherlock’s blood-stained shirt.

 

With no pulse to cause any pressure, the cold, red liquid dripped out of the gash feebly, trickling down the detective’s chest, making his shiver.

“What happened?” John asked, grabbing some cotton wool from the kit and dipping it in the clear, thick liquid from the container. He dabbed at the wound, and something like a thin stream of white steam rose from it. Sherlock hissed and John reached down to squeeze his hand comfortingly.

“Miller,” the vampire croaked, “He was there with… I thought I could trust him. He had a werewolf with him and… He had these claws. I couldn’t get away.”

 

John lifted the hand holding Sherlock’s and brushed some loose curls out of his eyes.

“It’s okay,” he murmured softly, “You’re safe now. I’ve got you…”

Sherlock nodded, taking his eyes away from John’s for only a brief moment so he could glace down at his wound. It was slowly shrinking, skin joining back onto skin and muscle to muscle tissue. He hadn’t realized it was so deep. He was surprised he couldn’t see the bone.

“Thank you,” he breathed, smiling up at John as he wrapped a clean, white bandage around it. It was more of a precaution than anything.

“You need to feed,” John replied simply, tying the fabric together and beginning to undo his own shirt.

 

“No!” Sherlock exclaimed, pushing his hands away from the button, “I said before, I won’t.”

“I’m not giving you a choice, Sherlock,” John replied, pulling the fabric off his shirt away and dropping it onto the floor.

“I can go out,” Sherlock insisted, “I’m fine, we can find someone else.” He tried to stand, but with nothing to hold onto for support, quickly collapsed.

John caught him and pulled him onto his lap again, wrapping the other’s leg around his waist. He tilted his head to the side and took Sherlock’s hand, placing it on his flushed skin.

The vampire stared in wonder for a moment as John’s pulse, elevated from his earlier panic, thrummed under his pale fingertips. He’d never smelled or felt anything so inviting before.

 

After a long moment of silence, Sherlock frozen in shock and awe, and John in anticipation, the doctor reached up and kissed him gently, cupping his cheek with his hand. Sherlock’s eyes flickered closed, and when they opened again, they were a deep, blood red.

“Please,” John murmured, “I want this. I want you to have me, all of me. I want to be the thing keeping you alive.”

Sherlock licked his lips, looking helpless and torn. He knew he shouldn’t, but if it was what John wanted, John who smelled so good and always knew what he was doing, who was he to deny him that chance?

 

He sighed and took deep breath before leaning to press his lips just below his ear.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, before moving down to press his fangs down into his partner’s unscarred neck.

 

John gasped and tensed, his whole boy screaming out for him to get as far away from this… _Monster_ as possible, pain washing through him like and inferno, blazing on of control, until his muscles suddenly seemed to melt into Sherlock’s touch and he was unable to move.

“Oh god…” he groaned, pleasure washing over him in dark, dirty pulses, “Sherlock!”

Sherlock responded with a moan of his own, hands grasping at his lover’s hips and pulling him closer as his tongue lapped desperately at the blood dripping into his mouth.

 

There were so many tastes, sweet ones – ‘lemon zest, apple juice, wild berries…’ – musty ones – ‘like walking through the forest, or freshly cut grass’ – and chemical once – ‘mostly copper and ethanol. He’s been out drinking again. I’m sorry I scared you John…’ There were so many things to record, so much new information to store in the room in his Mind Palace labelled, ‘John.’ The label probably had a kiss at the end. ‘John x.’ Yes, that seemed right, because he loved John and liked kissing him, everywhere he possibly could, because he loved to hear him moan.

He was moaning right now, which was good. They were sharing the pleasure, like you’re meant to. The thought made Sherlock’s chest flutter.

 

Wait, no, this wasn’t moaning. This was words.

“Stop.”

‘What? Why do you want me to stop? We’re enjoying this, weren’t we?’

“Sherlock, please!”

A whimper. Sherlock felt something wet drip onto his neck. A tear. ‘Why are you crying? Do people cry when they’re happy?’

“You’re hurting me Sherlock!”

 

The vampire blinked and pulled away. It was like a bucket of cold water had been poured on him.

John collapsed against his shoulder, breathing heavily and sobbing loudly.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, pulling him in close, “Oh god, I’m sorry.”

He kissed his neck desperately, trailing his tongue across the two puncture marks. They closed slowly, but he kept kissing.

John quivered in his arms.

 

“Is it always like that?” he asked after a moment, his voice rough and barely a breath. Sherlock shook his head.

“No. God no,” he said, wrapping his arms around John’s waist and burying his nose in the crook of his neck, “I just- I didn’t mean to. I got distracted. I’m so sorry.”

There was a huff of breath against his neck and it took a moment for Sherlock to realize John was laughing weakly.

“Do I really taste that good?” he asked, lifting his head with a grin. He was pale, and his lips were dry and chapped. Sherlock reached up and quickly claimed those lips in a gentle kiss.

“So good,” he murmured, “Like berries, and freshly cut grass, and early morning dew, and electricity.”

 

“Does everyone taste like that?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Only you,” he murmured, reaching up to cup his face and stroke his cheek gently with his thumb, “In all of my two-hundred years of vampirism, it’s only ever been you.”

‘Except for _him_ …’

Sherlock pushed the thought away. No, _he_ didn’t count. _He_ was the reason for all of this. _He_ had ruined _everything_.

John would have blushed if he’d had enough blood to do so. Instead, he reached up to press a deep kiss to the vampire’s lips.

“I love you,” he murmured and the vampire grinned.

“I love you too.”

 

They were silent for a long moment, content to be just held tightly in the other’s arms, until Sherlock murmured, “They killed that girl.”

John looked at him, shocked. “They did? But, Lestrade didn’t phone…”

Sherlock frowned. “He doesn’t… He doesn’t think that we did it but, there are… Others who think we did. Actually, we’re top suspects between the ones that _know_ about us and others like us. He doesn’t want me to get involved, not officially, and draw attention to us. Well, Mycroft doesn’t.

“Mycroft?” John raised an eyebrow and Sherlock smirked.

“They have an… Arrangement of sort,” he said, “A very… Special one. Lestrade actually wanted my help by Mycroft twisted his arm… Or perhaps something else.”

John couldn’t help but giggle at that, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.

“He’s just being a good brother,” he murmured, “And Greg’s being a good friend. You shouldn’t tease them.”

“You should have heard Mycroft when I told him about you,” Sherlock replied, “Going on about how you were my toy-boy and far too young for me.” John laughed.

“Technically,” Sherlock pointed out, “I’ve only been _alive_ for thirty-five years, so you’re still older than me.”

“Maybe you’re _my_ toy-boy then,” John said, kissing him gently before frowning.

 

“What… What will happen though,” he asked, “When I get too old. We’d look odd together, people would notice. What about when I die?”

Sherlock reached up and cupped John’s cheek again, forcing his to look him straight in the eye. “I’ll die the next day,” he replied simply, “By any means necessary.”

John looked shocked. “No!” he exclaimed, “People need you. _The police_ need you. You can’t just kill yourself because I die. That’s not fair.”

“Someone else will take my place,” Sherlock said, shrugging it off simply, “Not someone as good as me, but I’m sure they’d be fine. _I_ need _you_ , that is _all_ that matters to me. If I can’t have you, there’s no point in me being here at all. I’d go insane; I wouldn’t be able to look after myself. I couldn’t even survive you for a moment, not now that I’ve had you once. I simply couldn’t-”

 

John cut him off with a long, deep kiss, reaching up to run his hands through his messy curls.

“Stop,” he said simply, “You’re not going anywhere. I forbid you.”

Sherlock smile and rolled his eyes, reaching down to give his hand a squeeze.

 

“I mean,” John shrugged, “You could always turn me into a vampire, and we’d spend eternity together…”

“No!” Sherlock replied, before the words were fully out of John’s mouth, “Don’t even think about it. I’m not doing that.”

John frowned, looking confused. “What? Why not? It can’t be much worse than what we did just now.”

 

Sherlock took a deep breath, clenching his jaw and trying to keep himself from shouting. He pointed to the back of his mouth.

“I have… I have these glands,” he said, “In my mouth. They either make the chemical that seals up wounds, or the toxin that makes whoever I’m feeding on into a vampire. That toxin, it… It burns, like fire. Every part of your entire body gets scorched and blistered, like you’re being burned alive. It last for… Up to a week, but the pain… It stays for anywhere up to ten years.” He took a shaky breath, remembering the searing, scorching pain that had him doubled over in agony for day and days upon end.

“You can be doing anything,” he said, looking back down at John, “Even something like reading a book, and the simple action of turning the page can set it off, burning and burning you from the inside, until you’re screaming again. I would wouldn’t… I couldn’t inflict that on you, not even for a moment, not for something so selfish.”

 

John reached up and ran a hand through Sherlock’s curls again.

“I would go though that,” he said softly, “By choice, for all of eternity, if it meant spending eternity with you because, if you won’t be selfish, _I_ will.”

Sherlock’s still heart fluttered, not literally, but he still felt it, that familiar, selfish, self-indulgent hiccup that made it feel like he’d just had life breathed back into him.  He nodded.

The nod was more to keep John happy than anything. He’d heard those words before, all those years ago, before he had ruined his life, and the life of the one he’d… Loved. The word made him feel sick now. _He_ didn’t deserve Sherlock’s love, that lying, backstabbing monster.

 

Sherlock had believed them at the time, those words that had seemed too good to be true, and look how that had turned out…

 

He needed to tell John, tell him now, about everything, before it got him hurt, before _he_ did anything drastic that John would hate him for, or before Sherlock himself did anything drastic that he would hate himself for.

“John, I… I need to tell you something,” he said, swallowing deeply. He could still just taste John’s blood on him lips, so sweet, so pure, and so innocent. “I haven’t been… Entirely honest with yo-”

 

Sherlock’s phone buzzed in his pocket. So did John’s. They both pulled them out to reveal they each had texts, both from a withheld number.

Sherlock’s read:

_‘Sorry I had to rough you up a bit there sweetie. I hope they weren’t too hard on you. But, from what I recall, you like it rough, don’t you? Naughty boy…_

_Half an hour, you know where to find me, you always did x.’_

Sherlock looked at this for a moment, trying to take it all in, make sense of it all, before grabbing John’s phone out of his hand.

The message on the display read:

_‘Make sure you tag along, wolfie, you’ll want to see this.’_

 

John looked up from Sherlock’s phone, which he had taken out of his hand, but hadn’t been able to make sense of the message and frowned. “I… Who is that? Is it… Is it _them_?”

Sherlock nodded, trying to hide the blind panic rushing through him.

What was _he_ doing? Why was _he_ coming back, after all these years? Why did _he_ need to _torment_ him?

 

He let out a shaky breath.

“You’re staying here.”

“No,” John replied shortly, “I one of these guys is a vampire,” Sherlock almost laughed at ‘if’, “I’d be better than anyone to protect you. I’m a big boy, you know, I know how to handle myself in a fight.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment, chewing his bottom lip. _He_ was good, very good. If he had a werewolf with him, that would make Sherlock more venerable. He might as well even up his even up his chances.

 

“Stay safe,” he said eventually, giving John a short kiss on the lips before standing up.

“I always do.” 

* * *

“Where are we going?”

 

Sherlock slipped his hand back and tucked it into John’s.

“This way,” he replied simply, pulling his partner towards dark alleyway to their left. A hundred-and-fifty years or so ago, there had been a quaint little café stood in that exact spot. It had always had sweet, gentle young women, giggling at the counter and keen to disappear into a dark alleyway with a handsome, mysterious stranger. What a story to tell the girls!

Sherlock had always sat in the corner, watching and waiting for something particularly sweet to walk in. That was until-

 

“Sherlock, sweetie pie!”

The vampire looked up from his angry glare at the cobble-stoned ground to see a lone shadow leaning against the wall. He tensed and dropped John’s hand, stepping in front of him protectively. The dark-haired figure pushed away from the wall and stepped into the weak moon light.

Sherlock gave him a curt nod, swallowing deeply before he could bring himself to say the name. _His_ name.

 

“It’s good to see you again… James.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun!  
> Bet you didn't see that coming! (*she says, even though it's in the tags*)  
> Anyway, hope you're excited about the ending next chapter, thanks for everyone who's left kudos, every time I get the email saying it, I have a little fangirl moment xD
> 
> Anyway, the real reason I'm down here.
> 
> If anyone wants to leave me a request (in the form of a ship, a place and an object) or a prompt or an idea I have a few places:
> 
> First, you can leave stuff here in the form of a comment (but that might be a little difficult :\\)
> 
> You can head over to my tumblr gonesherlocking.tumblr.com and leave something (my ask box is always open even on anon)
> 
> You can email me at pippa21336@hotmail.co.uk
> 
> Or tweet me @pippa21336
> 
> Or, if you can't somehow do any of those, my ask.fm (I know... I'm ashamed too) is ask.fm/pippa21336
> 
> Thanks guys!  
> (Caution; I am a chronic procrastinator. It might take a while for me to get back to you, especially if I'm busy.)


	6. Chapter 6

The Irishman rolled his eyes. “It’s just Jim now sweetie,” he said, his voice a pleasant and flirty tone, “James is so… Old fashioned.” He flashed a grin at him and Sherlock just about held back the urge to slap it off of his perfectly pale lips.

“Where’s your new pet?” Jim asked, peering around Sherlock’s long coat, “I told him to come.” John growled at being called Sherlock’s ‘pet’ and took a step forward.

“Oh, there he is. Gosh, he’s so cute,” the vampire said sweetly, “Tastes good too.”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Liar,” he said simply, “I know your fangs, Jim. You didn’t even touch him.”

Jim grinned and stuck his hands in his pockets. “You got me,” he said, almost sarcastically, “But I do like to tease.” His gaze flickered over to John. “Oh you do moan, don’t you Johnny-boy?”

John growled again and took a step forward, positively shaking with anger, but Sherlock grabbed his arm, tugging him back.

“Don’t,” he said simply, “It’s not worth it.”

  
John looked torn for a moment, glancing between the two vampires, before he sighed and straightened up, head held high, eyes trained on the vampire in front of him.

Jim chuckled. “Oh, you’re an obedient one aren’t you?” he said with a grin, taking a sauntering step towards them. John hissed, making the other chuckle again

“Mine isn’t half as good as yours,” he said idly, “I should get another…”

“Why are you doing this, Jim?” Sherlock asked exasperatedly. John could see he was getting impatient.

“Yeah,” he jumped in, “Why? Sherlock hasn’t done anything to _you_.”

 

Jim stopped dead, looking up from the floor with a surprised grin.

“Oh, really?” he said, continuing towards them slowly, hands in his pockets, “Is _that_ what you think?” He stopped in front of Sherlock, dangerously close, and looked right up into his eyes.

“Did you not tell him, Sherlock?” he asked, in mock disbelief, “Tut, tut sweet heart.”

He started walking again, circling around them like a shark.

“You didn’t tell him about how you were ‘ _so in love_ ’,” he said, looking them both up and down, “And do desperate to stay with your ‘true love’ _forever_?” He laughed bitterly. “Lying _bastard_.”

 

“James,” Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice level and pinching the bridge of his nose, “We don’t have to-”

“That’s _not_ my _name_ ,” the other vampire snarled, “You… You _leech_.”

John growled again. “Don’t. Call. Him. That.” He spat, watching as the dark hair man stepped around him. Jim laughed and ruffled his hair.

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” he said to Sherlock, grinning, “I might have to borrow him. Unless you have ‘plans’ for him.” He turned back to John and looked him up and down. “Let me guess, he’s given you the ‘I would die the next day’ speech?” he said rolling his eyes, “And done the whole ‘I’m not going to feed from my precious little baby’ act.”

 

John blinked a few times. How did he…?

He glanced up at Sherlock, looking for answers, and the other vampire’s eyes travelled down the werewolf’s neck.

“Tonight?” he asked; eyes wide. John turned back, pulling his jumper up to hide the marks at his throat. Jim chuckled. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” he said, moving to stand in front of the other vampire and grinning widely at him.

 

Sherlock tensed, lips curling back ever so slightly in a small snarl as he looked him up and down. Why he had ever even touched him, he had no idea. All he’d done was create a monster.

Jim stared back up at him, brow furrowed, shoulders square, lips pulled back in his own growl, until Sherlock’s expression softened and he reached out, causing Jim to stumble back slightly in confusion. The detective let his hand cup the other vampire’s cheek, stroking his porcelain skin gently with his thumb and smiling softly. John watched, frankly horrified, as his other hand slipped down and wrapped around Jim’s waist, tugging him close.

“We don’t need to do this,” Sherlock breathed, his voice too quiet for John to hear as he let his forehead rest against the other’s, “We don’t need to play this silly little game, do we?”

He moved in closer, letting his lips brush his ear and his voice turn smooth and soft. “Jamesy, Jamesy-Wamesy, sweet heart, let me look after-”

 

There was the sound of a gunshot and Sherlock snarled, pushing Jim away and clutching his shoulder.

“You fucking shot me!” he exclaimed and John grabbed his hand, pulling him away and trying to put himself between Sherlock and the gun. But he couldn’t see it.

“ _I_ didn’t,” Jim said, rolling his eyes as he straightened up and dusted off his suit, “Useless bloody… Sebastian!”

 

There was a loud thump, then a snarl that didn’t belong to anything John could put his finger on just yet, before a large figure came into view. It was a cat, a big cat. It looked like a tiger, but was at least twice as big, with bulging muscles and sharp claws that cracked the pavement as it slunk slowly towards them, striped tail swaying behind it. It stopped next to Jim and nuzzled his hand affectionately. Jim slapped him away, muttering, “Idiot,” under his breath.

“Is that yours?” Sherlock asked, rolling his shoulder as the tissues slowly but stiffly joined back together.

Jim nodded and tugged at the scruff of the cat’s neck, pulling him away from the other two, like a dog on a leash.

“Sebastian Moran,” he said with a small grin as the tiger growled and pawed at him, “My best sniper, my right hand man, my pet…” He glanced down at him and kicked a paw from under him, making him stumble. “My complete _idiot_. You don’t shook a _vampire_ , you twat.”

 

“He’s a… Were… Were _tiger_?” John asked, hands twitching, fingers curling and uncurling into fists.

Jim nodded. “The only one in Europe, aren’t you sweetie?” he said, scratching behind Sebastian’s ear, “The Ailuranthropic gene comes all the way from India.” The tiger purred softly, before pulling away and hissing at John.

 

John growled back, the sound ripping from deep within his throat and reverberating through his chest as he crouched down low, practically shaking. His head fell back and his eyes flickered close, before his muscles began to swell and his skin pricked with coarse, fair hairs, forcing their way through his pores. There was slow ripping sound and his jumper fell away in pieces, followed by his jeans, being torn by his growing tail. His hands clenched down into the ground, wrists snapping back as sharp claws grew from his fingertips and toes, pushing through his shoes and ripping them to shreds.

When his eyes opened again, less than ten seconds later, they were sharp and blue, with barely a trace of _John_ left in them.

 

He glared at the cat, curiously and tentatively reaching forward to sniff at his breath before throwing his head back again and howling. Sebastian growled, bending down low to the ground and watching. Waiting. John crouched down as well, claws digging into the ground as a moment of almost chilling silence settled over them. It only lasted a second or so, before they both pounced.

 

John took a swipe to the face and he hissed, returning it to the big cat’s stomach. He growled and John took the opportunity to dig his teeth into his front leg. Sebastian bit back, grabbing John’s neck between his teeth and tugging hard until blood-soaked hair and skin were pulled away from the flesh.

Sherlock smelled the blood as soon as the cold, night air hit it, and was pulling them apart in an instant. He tugged John away and he fell to the floor, panting and bleeding heavily as Sherlock crouched down, glaring at the weretiger.

 

The cat pounced at him and they fell together; kicking, biting, hissing and scratching. Sherlock got a few bites in with his fangs at Sebastian’s neck, but the sniper soon had him pinned down and was trailing his claws down his chest and stomach. Sherlock howled in pain as they dug harsh lines through his flesh, keratin burning him from the inside out.

Sebastian smirked, pressing down harder and digging in deeper, until there was a low whistle and he stopped; his paw just above Sherlock’s navel and the vampire’s shirt ripped to ribbons, turning to look at Jim.

 

 “Sebby,” he called from where he had been leaning casually against the wall, watching the scuffle, “Come on sweet heart. Don’t break him completely.”

Sebastian frowned, looking between his vampire and the one on the floor, who was panting and bleeding heavily to the point where he couldn’t move sighed, retracting his claws and slinking back over to Jim.

 

He stood up on his back legs and rested his front paws on the criminal’s shoulders, leaning in to nuzzle his neck gently with his soft  nose and whiskers, as he slowly shrunk back down and the hairs dropped from his body, dissolving and disappearing into the cold air to leave his stood completely naked in front of the other. He pulled back and smiled, before he reached down and kissed Jim gently, resting his hands on the vampire’s hip and pulling him close. His lips quickly moved down Jim’s jaw and then down his neck, making the criminal chuckle.

“Not here Bash, baby,” he said, glancing over his lover’s bleeding shoulder to make sure he could see all the affection he was getting, “When we get home, sweetie pie. Then I can lick you _all_ better.”

 

He slipped his hand down and gave Sebastian’s bare bum a squeeze.

The werecat whined. “Fucking tease,” he huffed, before letting himself be dragged towards the end of the alleyway.

Jim stopped next to John, who was bleeding heavily from his neck and had head between his blood-soaked paws, panting and gasping for breath. The vampire grabbed the scruff of his neck and tugged him up, pausing only to flash a dark smile at Sherlock before his dug his fangs down hard into John’s throat.

 

The wolf howled in pain and Sherlock staggered to his feet, clutching his bleeding torso and using the wall for support as he stumbled towards them. John’s cried quickly died down into a soft whimper and he fell to the floor with a soft thump as Jim stepped back, wiping black liquid away from his bottom lip which was definitely not blood. Sherlock’s eyes grew wide and he gasped, making Jim smirk.

“There you go love,” he said, looking down at John smugly, “I’ll save you the work.”

And with that, he grabbed Sebastian’s arm and tugged him toward the exit of the alleyway, disappearing into the darkness.

 

Sherlock collapsed next to John as he seemed to slowly flicker between wolf and man, muscles bubbling almost like hot plastic, swelling and shrinking until he eventually settled back in his human form. The vampire pulled him close, wincing as he let his head rest in his lap and brushed swear and blood-soaked hair out of his eyes.

 

“I’m burning, Sherlock,” John gasped, his voice dry and cracked, barely a whisper.

“I know,” Sherlock nodded, voice breaking, “I know, love. I’ll stop soon, I swear.” He rushed his thumb over the black bite marks on his neck, leaning down to kiss them.

John convulsed in pain, doubling over and coughing. “Help me Sherlock,” his voice was strained, like he was trying to scream, but didn’t have the breath, “I can’t… I’m burning. My heart, it’s on fire.” He looked up at his friend, eyes pleading. “Help me…”

Sherlock’s lip quivered and he sobbed, pressing desperate kisses to John’s lips and holding him close to his chest.

 

“I’ll fix it, I promise,” he whispered, “I’ll make it go away. Just hold on, okay? Just hold on for me.”

He pressed a hard kiss to John’s lips, to his brow, to his forehead, as his breathing got more laboured and lost its rhythm.

“Sherlock…” the word was tiny and full of pain.

“No, shhh,” Sherlock murmured, taking the werewolf’s hand, “Don’t speak, just… I love you, okay? Remember that. I love you, so, so much…”

John’s eyes flickered open, just barely, and he smiled softly, before his eyelids drooped again and his head slumped.

 

“Sherlock!”

The vampire didn’t turn when he heard his name being called, but instead held John tighter, sobbing softly with his nose buried in his fair hair.

“Sherlock!”

His name came again, closer, and he hissed over his shoulder.

“Sherlock, Mycroft told me to come as quickly as I- Oh god…”

 

The vampire looked and, and Lestrade’s face swam into view behind his tears. He looked horrified.

“What… What happened?” he stammered, looking between the two of them.

Sherlock sobbed again, kissing the top of John’s head before whispering in a shaky voice;

 

“I didn’t keep him safe.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock didn’t move from John’s side for a week, unless it was to obsessively make cups of tea for him, setting them down on the coffee table before curling back into a ball on the floor next to the sofa, holding his hand to his lips and breathing in his scent, or to get a damp cloth for his forehead every time he convulsed in pain, coughing until he was weak and red in the face.

 

It hadn’t been like that last time. He’d gone off and let James get on with it for the seven days, leaving him alone when he woke up. Maybe that’s what he had done wrong, maybe he _had_ ruined everything.

No. James was bad, rotten to the core, even as a human. Like he said before, he shouldn’t have even touched him.

 

But thinking back, he knew he couldn’t have helped it.

 

* * *

 

 

July 26th 1892, the eve of his 40th… Deathday? Was that an appropriate name for it? He wished he could forget it, but he couldn’t. The page in the book of his memory had been dog-eared long ago, and he would never be able to smooth the infuriating crease out.

 

Either way, he was planning to treat himself. The owner of shop he bought his best shoes from had a daughter, a beautiful young thing with silver-blonde ringlets then hung down to her back and innocent green eyes, and that’s not to mention her blood which smelled of peppermint and copper filings which was gorgeous. She had turned eighteen the day before and was definitely top of his list.

 

He pushed the door of the café open and the little bell above him tinkled softly. He smiled and tilted his hat to the plump, elderly lady behind the counter. She smiled and he took his place in the corner, by the window. He wasn’t bothered by daylight, of course, that was just a silly folk legend people told to make themselves feel safe, and that day had been particularly bright, encouraging people to flock out onto the streets for a walk to the park or to browse the many stalls that lines the streets. How boring.

 

An hour and a half later – he could still remember the bloody time for goodness sake – the bell chimed again. Sherlock glanced up briefly, in case it might be the young woman he had picked out for himself, but his eyes soon dropped back to the newspaper in front of him when the figure turned out to be someone completely different; a young, dark haired man, obviously a professor at the university.

 

He paid the figure no notice until the chair across from him scraped along the floor and he looked up again.

“May I?” the man sported a sly smirk as he spoke, batting his eyelashes.

“Be my guest…”

 

* * *

 

It took him a moment, still wrapped up in his memories, to realize there was a subtle change in the room, something wrong with the noises and the smell and the temperature of the hand that he held.

John had stopped breathing.

It took him a further moment to realize that the ex-werewolf had turned over on his side and that he had been telling his story aloud.

 

“Go on,” a silky voice came from behind him, slightly lower and smoother than the one he remembered, “Tell me.”

“John, I-” he turned and there was a pale finger pressed to his lips. He looked up at the body on the sofa, taking in his now piercing, blue eyes, too-sharp features and alabaster-white skin, still flushed from the blood left in his body. His eyes quickly travelled down and caught sight of his new fangs, perfectly, ivory-white and ever so slightly curved, pressing softly into his bottom lip.

“Shhh…” he said softly, reaching up and stroking hair out of his lover’s eyes. He winced as he did so, obviously still feeling the burn. “I want to hear what happened.”

 

Sherlock nodded and took John’s hand again. It was slightly cooler than it had been before, and there was no pulse thrumming under his skin, but he now matched the temperature of the detective, perfectly so.

 

“He was… A werewolf,” Sherlock said, running his thumb across the back of John’s hand, “And… I thought he was _the one_. He was… Clever – dangerously so, but I liked that –and handsome, and definitely kept me busy, joining in on my experiments and getting me body parts to experiment on from the university.”

He smirked softly and squeezed John’s hand.

“And then… He said he wanted me to bite him,” he said in a small voice, “Completely out of the blue. I kept saying no, every time he asked, because I…” he took a breath before attempting to even say the word, “I loved him and I didn’t want to hurt him.”

 

 “But you did?” John asked; his voice hoarse.

Sherlock sighed and nodded. “Eventually,” he said, “Because, he said he wanted to be like me.” He laughed bitterly. “And I believed him.” He shook his head at himself. “I fucking believed that backstabbing little-” He took a shaky breath. “He _didn’t_ want to ‘ _be like me_ ’,” he said, “He wanted to be strong, and fast, and powerful. I don’t think he ever wanted me for more than that and sex.”

He reached up and stroked John’s cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he said quietly, leaning down to kiss his partner’s forehead, “I just… I just wanted to forget. It was a long time ago, he doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

 

John reached out, his hands rather shaky; only wincing at what must have been waves of searing pain. He cupped the side of Sherlock’s cheek, leaning in to kiss him softly. “It’s okay,” he said quietly, “Everyone has one psycho-ex, yours just happens to be extra crazy.”

Sherlock laughed and smiled, squeezing his lover’s hand before sighing.

“I love you, John,” he said quietly and the John smiled.

“I love you t-”

 

The soft sound of the door downstairs clicking closed had John sat bolt upright and growling in a second, any thoughts of pain pushed to the side. Sherlock looked between him and the door for a moment, before the sound of two sets of footsteps on the stairs drifted up. From the sound of it, it was his brother and Detective Inspector Lestrade, his toyboy.

Sherlock took a tighter hold of John’s hand and pushed him back against the sofa. He snarled at the taller man, baring his fangs.

“It’s okay,” he said soothingly, “You don’t need it, you don’t want it…”

 

“Knock, knock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried not to glare at his bother.

“Piss off,” he snapped, “John’s just woken up. Your play-thing is upsetting him.”

“I’m not his play-thing, Sherlock, I-”

John strained against his friend’s hand as Lestrade stepped into the room. The detective inspector took an uneasy step back and John practically drooled after him.

Sherlock took his face in both hands and turned him towards him.

 

“You _don’t need it,_ ” he said simply, “Just ignore him.”

“But I’m hungry,” John whined, “And he smells so good…”

Sherlock scoffed. “Hardly,” he said, looking the officer up and down, “He’s average at best.”

Lestrade was about to object when Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder and leaned in close to his ear. He whispered something, too soft for the two vampires to hear, and the other blushed crimson, causing John to stir uneasily under Sherlock’s hand. Lestrade nodded and stepped back away into the hall, suddenly looking rather impatient.

 

Mycroft smiled, before making his way over to stand by his brother.

“Piss off,” the younger Holmes growled, glaring up at him. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“I’m only here to check you’re alright,” he said, in that annoying matter-of-fact voice that grated at Sherlock’s skull.

“I’m fine,” he snapped, “Did you find him? James?”

“I have my best men on it,” his brother replied and the other rolled his eyes, “Fine, my second best men.”

 

“Good,” Sherlock said shortly, not looking up at him, “Then get it _done_ and leave us _alone_.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes again. “Fine, fine,” he said, walking back towards the door. He turned before he got there and smiled at John. “I hope our newest arrival to the family settles in well,” he glanced at Sherlock, “And doesn’t do anything too _stupid_.”

Sherlock smirked and looked up at his brother. “Don’t you trust me, Mycroft?” he asked innocently.

A flicker of a smile danced across the vampire’s lips. “Not half as far as I can throw you, dear brother,” he said, before taking Lestrade’s hand – ‘he’s just trying to piss me off’ – and making his way back down the stairs.

 

Sherlock smiled despite himself and turned back to John, who was still looking rather ravenously after the human on the steps but seemed to have let the pain catch up with him again.

“Are you hungry love?” he asked, brushing some hair from his eyes.

John nodded frantically, holding his stomach and looking uncomfortable. “Starving.”

Sherlock grinned and pressed a kiss to his forehead, beginning to stand up.

 

“Jamesy Wamesy…”

“What?”

“James Wamesy… Is that _really_ what you called him?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Shut up, he was my first boyfriend,” he said defensively as he slipped his hands under the other, lifting him into his arms like he weighed nothing at all.

John chuckled and reached up to kiss him softly on the lips again. “Now worries,” he said with a grin, “ _Sherly._ ”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and pulled him in closer to his chest.

“Come on, let’s get you some dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys so, last chapter :)  
> I hope you enjoyed it, this was actually my first ever real proper multi-chapter fic and my first AU fic so it's kind of my baby... Be nice. Please. And feel free to leave comments or tell me if you catch out anything wrong. This whole thing hasn't been Beta'd so any mistakes are mine, especially seeing as lots of this was written at about 2am when I was half asleep.  
> Anyway, hope you liked it!


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